It was Christmas Eve, and the family circle of Luke Steffink, Esq., was aglow
with the amiability and random mirth which the occasion demanded. A long and
lavish dinner had been partaken of, waits had been round and sung carols; the
house-party had regaled itself with more caroling on its own account, and there
had been romping which, even in a pulpit reference, could not have been
condemned as ragging. In the midst of the general glow, however, there was one
black unkindled cinder.

Bertie Steffink, nephew of the aforementioned Luke, had early in life adopted
the profession of ne'er-do-weel; his father had been something of the kind
before him. At the age of eighteen Bertie had commenced that round of visits to
our Colonial possessions, so seemly and desirable in the case of a Prince of the
Blood, so suggestive of insincerity in a young man of the middle-class. He had
gone to grow tea in Ceylon and fruit in British Columbia, and to help sheep to
grow wool in Australia. At the age of twenty he had just returned from some
similar errand in Canada, from which it may be gathered that the trial he gave
to these various experiments was of the summary drum-head nature. Luke Steffink,
who fulfilled the troubled role of guardian and deputy-parent to Bertie,
deplored the persistent manifestation of the homing instinct on his nephew's
part, and his solemn thanks earlier in the day for the blessing of reporting a
united family had no reference to Bertie's return.

Arrangements had been promptly made for packing the youth off to a distant
corner of Rhodesia, whence return would be a difficult matter; the journey to
this uninviting destination was imminent, in fact a more careful and willing
traveller would have already begun to think about his packing. Hence Bertie was
in no mood to share in the festive spirit which displayed itself around him, and
resentment smouldered within him at the eager, self-absorbed discussion of
social plans for the coming months which he heard on all sides. Beyond
depressing his uncle and the family circle generally by singing "Say au revoir,
and not good-bye," he had taken no part in the evening's conviviality.

Eleven o'clock had struck some half-hour ago, and the elder Steffinks began to
throw out suggestions leading up to that process which they called retiring for
the night.

"Come, Teddie, it's time you were in your little bed, you know," said Luke
Steffink to his thirteen-year-old son.

The remark was considered to border on the scandalous; everybody ate raisins and
almonds with the nervous industry of sheep feeding during threatening weather.

"In Russia," said Horace Bordenby, who was staying in the house as a Christmas
guest, "I've read that the peasants believe that if you go into a cow-house or
stable at midnight on Christmas Eve you will hear the animals talk. They're
supposed to have the gift of speech at that one moment of the year."

"Oh, DO let's ALL go down to the cow-house and listen to what they've got to
say!" exclaimed Beryl, to whom anything was thrilling and amusing if you did it
in a troop.

Mrs. Steffink made a laughing protest, but gave a virtual consent by saying, "We
must all wrap up well, then." The idea seemed a scatterbrained one to her, and
almost heathenish, but if afforded an opportunity for "throwing the young people
together," and as such she welcomed it. Mr. Horace Bordenby was a young man with
quite substantial prospects, and he had danced with Beryl at a local
subscription ball a sufficient number of times to warrant the authorised inquiry
on the part of the neighbours whether "there was anything in it." Though Mrs.
Steffink would not have put it in so many words, she shared the idea of the
Russian peasantry that on this night the beast might speak.

The cow-house stood at the junction of the garden with a small paddock, an
isolated survival, in a suburban neighbourhood; of what had once been a small
farm. Luke Steffink was complacently proud of his cow-house and his two cows; he
felt that they gave him a stamp of solidity which no number of Wyandottes or
Orpingtons could impart. They even seemed to link him in a sort of inconsequent
way with those patriarchs who derived importance from their floating capital of
flocks and herbs, he-asses and she-asses. It had been an anxious and momentous
occasion when he had had to decide definitely between "the Byre" and "the Ranch"
for the naming of his villa residence. A December midnight was hardly the moment
he would have chosen for showing his farm-building to visitors, but since it was
a fine night, and the young people were anxious for an excuse for a mild frolic,
Luke consented to chaperon the expedition. The servants had long since gone to
bed, so the house was left in charge of Bertie, who scornfully declined to stir
out on the pretext of listening to bovine conversation.

"We must go quietly," said Luke, as he headed the procession of giggling young
folk, brought up in the rear by the shawled and hooded figure of Mrs. Steffink;
"I've always laid stress on keeping this a quiet and orderly neighbourhood."

It was a few minutes to midnight when the party reached the cow-house and made
its way in by the light of Luke's stable lantern. For a moment every one stood
in silence, almost with a feeling of being in church.

"Daisy -- the one lying down -- is by a shorthorn bull out of a Guernsey cow,"
announced Luke in a hushed voice, which was in keeping with the foregoing
impression.

"Is she?" said Bordenby, rather as if he had expected her to be by Rembrandt.

Myrtle's family history was cut short by a little scream from the women of the
party.

The cow-house door had closed noiselessly behind them and the key had turned
gratingly in the lock; then they heard Bertie's voice pleasantly wishing them
good-night and his footsteps retreating along the garden path.

Luke Steffink strode to the window; it was a small square opening of the old-
fashioned sort, with iron bars let into the stonework.

"Unlock the door this instant," he shouted, with as much air of menacing
authority as a hen might assume when screaming through the bars of a coop at a
marauding hawk. In reply to his summons the hall-door closed with a defiant
bang.

A neighbouring clock struck the hour of midnight. If the cows had received the
gift of human speech at that moment they would not have been able to make
themselves heard. Seven or eight other voices were engaged in describing
Bertie's present conduct and his general character at a high pressure of
excitement and indignation.

In the course of half an hour or so everything that it was permissible to say
about Bertie had been said some dozens of times, and other topics began to come
to the front -- the extreme mustiness of the cow-house, the possibility of it
catching fire, and the probability of it being a Rowton House for the vagrant
rats of the neighbourhood. And still no sign of deliverance came to the
unwilling vigil-keepers.

Towards one o'clock the sound of rather boisterous and undisciplined carol-
singing approached rapidly, and came to a sudden anchorage, apparently just
outside the garden-gate. A motor-load of youthful "bloods," in a high state of
conviviality, had made a temporary halt for repairs; the stoppage, however, did
not extend to the vocal efforts of the party, and the watchers in the cow-shed
were treated to a highly unauthorised rendering of "Good King Wenceslas," in
which the adjective "good" appeared to be very carelessly applied.

The noise had the effect of bringing Bertie out into the garden, but he utterly
ignored the pale, angry faces peering out at the cow-house window, and
concentrated his attention on the revellers outside the gate.

"Wassail, old sport!" they shouted back; "we'd jolly well drink y'r health, only
we've nothing to drink it in."

"Come and wassail inside," said Bertie hospitably; "I'm all alone, and there's
heap's of 'wet'."

They were total strangers, but his touch of kindness made them instantly his
kin. In another moment the unauthorised version of King Wenceslas, which, like
many other scandals, grew worse on repetition, went echoing up the garden path;
two of the revellers gave an impromptu performance on the way by executing the
staircase waltz up the terraces of what Luke Steffink, hitherto with some
justification, called his rock-garden. The rock part of it was still there when
the waltz had been accorded its third encore. Luke, more than ever like a cooped
hen behind the cow-house bars, was in a position to realise the feelings of
concert-goers unable to countermand the call for an encore which they neither
desire or deserve.

The hall door closed with a bang on Bertie's guests, and the sounds of merriment
became faint and muffled to the weary watchers at the other end of the garden.
Presently two ominous pops, in quick succession, made themselves distinctly
heard.

Luke uncorked an expletive which, like brandy in a temperance household, was
only used on rare emergencies. Mr. Horace Bordenby had been making use of
similar expressions under his breath for a considerable time past. The
experiment of "throwing the young people together" had been prolonged beyond a
point when it was likely to produce any romantic result.

Some forty minutes later the hall door opened and disgorged a crowd that had
thrown off any restraint of shyness that might have influenced its earlier
actions. Its vocal efforts in the direction of carol singing were now
supplemented by instrumental music; a Christmas-tree that had been prepared for
the children of the gardener and other household retainers had yielded a rich
spoil of tin trumpets, rattles, and drums. The life-story of King Wenceslas had
been dropped, Luke was thankful to notice, but it was intensely irritating for
the chilled prisoners in the cow-house to be told that it was a hot time in the
old town tonight, together with some accurate but entirely superfluous
information as to the imminence of Christmas morning. Judging by the protests
which began to be shouted from the upper windows of neighbouring houses the
sentiments prevailing in the cow-house were heartily echoed in other quarters.

The revellers found their car, and, what was more remarkable, managed to drive
off in it, with a parting fanfare of tin trumpets. The lively beat of a drum
disclosed the fact that the master of the revels remained on the scene.

"Bertie!" came in an angry, imploring chorus of shouts and screams from the cow-
house window.

"Hullo," cried the owner of the name, turning his rather errant steps in the
direction of the summons; "are you people still there? Must have heard
everything cows got to say by this time. If you haven't, no use waiting. After
all, it's a Russian legend, and Russian Chrismush Eve not due for 'nother
fortnight. Better come out."

After one or two ineffectual attempts he managed to pitch the key of the cow-
house door in through the window. Then, lifting his voice in the strains of "I'm
afraid to go home in the dark," with a lusty drum accompaniment, he led the way
back to the house. The hurried procession of the released that followed in his
steps came in for a good deal of the adverse comment that his exuberant display
had evoked.

It was the happiest Christmas Eve he had ever spent. To quote his own words, he
had a rotten Christmas.